Amnestria the Elf

Astarion ya boi gaining autonomy after 200 years:

Shadowheart lil' miss critical miss:

Minthara being a menace:

Karlach never starts a fight but ends them:

Wyll guilting you to do the right thing:

Lae'zel change dragon to gith:

Gale made you food:

Halsin is just happy to be included:

Jaheira to her rowdy cubs:

Minsc crediting every good thing to Boo:

Working up the nerve to publish some writing I've never shared before, both here and on AO3. Enjoy!

AO3 link

Wyll has a headache again.

You recognize the signs; it’s a rare day that passes where you don’t feel like your skull is trying to split open. You can at least understand the cause of Wyll’s headaches–suddenly sprouting a pair of heavy devil horns will do that to a person, even one as strong-willed as the Blade of Frontiers–but the reason for your own is still lost in the foggy soup of your memory.

The first time you’d been taken by a headache in camp, he’d offered to help, warmth in his then brown eyes and genuine kindness in his voice. You’d said no, back then; you hadn’t been focused on his eyes or his voice but on the curve of his throat, stuck on the thought of your hands closing around his neck–gently, of course, gently because he was trying to be gentle with you, and you could be gentle in kind. You’d wondered back then how long the warmth would stay in his eyes as you choked him; you’d wondered what his voice would sound like in dying gasps.

You hadn’t dared to sleep that night.

Now, though, you wished you’d said yes instead. It would have been a risk, but that’s the thing about, well, you–being around you is always a risk, with your thoughts and your urges. You’re not any safer now than you were then, and at least if you’d said yes it would be easier now to speak to Wyll about his own headaches.

He’s sitting now on a log by the fire, head bowed, eyes closed. To anyone else, he looks asleep; you see the tension along his brow, the subtle way his jaw moves, and you know he isn’t sleeping at all. No one else is near the fire, and that seems to suit him just fine.

It suits you just fine, too. After only a moment of hesitation, you remind yourself that you don’t think about things, you do them, and so you leave your tent and head towards the fire.

You make noise as you approach, though. Not too much–you don’t want to step too loudly and make his headache worse–but apparently a common camp complaint is that you move too quietly, and nobody likes that. Astarion still swears that you gave him such a scare you nearly made his heart start beating again, the time you switched off the night watch with him early on in your group’s traveling days.

Wyll hears you, though, and that’s what matters; he lifts his head as you approach, and even though his eyes are tired and his lips are pressed tightly together, he still manages a weak smile for you. You smile back, and after only a moment of thought you ignore the log entirely and instead sit on the ground in front of Wyll, your back to the fire. It’s not too bad; you’re very tall.

Wyll blinks at you, amused and baffled and looking so, so tired. You hesitate and then, remembering how bad your own headaches can get, you have an idea; you bring one hand to the side of your head and tap your fingers against your temple, gently, as you keep your eyes locked with his.

A question, if he can’t speak.

He probably can’t. You know that pain, too.

There’s a pause, and after a moment Wyll sighs and nods. It’s that bad, then.

You hesitate again. You want to touch, to soothe, but you don’t want to assume and you need something solid, something sure to keep yourself focused so your mind won’t… wander. You don’t want to touch him without that focus and have your thoughts be consumed by what it would feel like to kill him.

You dream about killing him enough as it is.

Wyll is much, much smarter than you are though, thank the Oak Father–it’s a there and gone again thought, but your stomach still revolts against it all the same in a way you don’t understand, a sick taste lingering on your tongue–and with a soft huff that you’re pretty sure is a laugh, he shifts to lean a little closer and lowers his head obligingly.

Trust. You want to kiss him for it.

You could kill him with it.

The thought lingers just long enough that you bite your tongue, and the sharp shock of pain clears your mind. Only then–only when you’re sure–do you press your hands against the base of his horns, your breath briefly catching at the way he leans into your touch.

Gods, but you could get addicted to his trust. To the way he leans into you instead of shying away like so many in camp still do.

Gods, but if you slid your hands down lower still, cupping his face and running your fingers over the heroic thump thump thump of that pulse–

You bite your tongue again, hard enough this time that you taste blood.

Not yet, croons a voice deep inside you that you don’t recognize, but–it sounds like you, you think. Not quite right, not you as you know yourself now, but–some version of you, perhaps. Soft and silky smooth where you are neither of those things.

No, you think in response, firm and harsh. You’re willing to risk many things to your urges–to this you that is both you and yet not you buried somewhere inside you–but Wyll isn’t one of them. Wyll will never be one of them.

You want to help him.

The you that is both you and yet not goes silent, and takes your urges with them for the time being. You take a quiet breath to compose yourself, then focus on taking care of Wyll in some small way after all the times he’s taken care of you while in battle.

Maybe when this is done, he’ll offer to help you with your headaches again.

What makes me laugh (at myself, like an idiot xD) is that before taking this shot, I literally thought, “Alright, time to put the Blade in a nice pose and give him a little attention.”

…Yeah, well.

I opened Photo Mode, and he was already posing like this. xD

W is for Wyll.

That sword was supposed to be resting on his shoulder armor, but then ✨boom✨ this pretty light hit the blade and I had to change plans.

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